Scars
by Archaeologist
Summary: Arthur finds out that Merlin has been hiding something from him. If only he knew the truth...
1. Scars

**Rating:** PG-13  
><strong>Pairings:** Arthur/Merlin  
><strong>Characters:** Arthur/Merlin  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Arthur finds out that Merlin has been hiding something from him.  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 781

**Author's Note:** this was originally posted in my Merlin ficlets but I'm expanding it to a full story so I'm reposting it.

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><p>Arthur was never really curious about Merlin's body. After all, royalty didn't consort with peasants, well, except for maybe a tumble or two and Uther frowned on such liaisons anyway. His father always said that those kind of trysts tended to lead to <em>expectations.<em> Best to stick with the whores. At least they knew their place.

Not that Arthur would tumble anyone, noble or peasant, without their consent. It was dishonourable. And the thought of using someone for money made his skin crawl.

But Merlin was an altogether different kettle of fish.

Odd, unsettling, annoying in a must-get-the-upper-hand kind of way and he was always covered up, shirts and those awful neck cloths that only allowed the slightest hint of pale skin when he made Arthur's bed or poured the wine at dinner or cleaned up the ashes in the fireplace. Not that Arthur noticed, of course, not at all.

It was only to watch him, to make sure he did his chores properly and if Arthur saw something he oughtn't, then who was to know. Besides, Merlin saw him naked all the time, even implied he was fat once or twice and turnabout was fair play.

So when Arthur came back from a council meeting early, and clumsy as ever, Merlin was sputtering, cursing at an overturned bucket and him soaked to the skin, it only made sense that Merlin take off the shirt and let it dry by the fire. Otherwise he might get his death of cold and where would Arthur be? Servant-less.

And really, Merlin had nothing to hide.

Except he did.

Backing up, shaking his head at Arthur's suggestion, claiming it would be better for him to get another shirt and he didn't want Arthur to be inopportuned – and when did that ever stop Merlin? – he was still prattling on when Arthur started to get suspicious.

What did Merlin have to hide? And if he was hiding something, then Arthur had a right to know about it. After all, he was the prince and if someone under him was keeping secrets, that just wouldn't do, even if it was Merlin.

Especially if it was Merlin.

So when the idiot headed for the door, Arthur grabbed him by his disgustingly soggy shirt and pulled.

Who would have thought that cloth could tear so easily? Or that Merlin would sputter and jerk away and gather the remnants of his shirt around his chest? Or look absolutely frantic about it?

But as Arthur was about to mock him, call him a girl for being so shy about showing a bit of skin, he looked again.

Merlin's chest, what Arthur could see of it, was covered in scars. The grotty neckerchief askew, he could see a large ropy burn extended from Merlin's collarbone to one half-twisted nipple; there was welts there, too, likely from knives or swords and a disfiguring knot of mutilation at his ribs. No clean pale skin that Arthur dreamed of at night, no unblemished canvas to scatter kisses upon.

Just a map of pain and more pain.

What the hell had Merlin been doing?

Sending Arthur a glare that would have killed a lesser man, Merlin reached into the laundry, and pulling out one of Arthur's dirty shirts, shoved it on. As he did, Arthur could see even more scars across his back. Some of them took his breath away.

But there wasn't time to confront Merlin about them. Stomping out, he slammed the door so hard that Arthur was surprised the wood didn't shatter. Behind him, one of his decorative wall shields fell with a noisy thud and there was a crash of glass, too, goblets or perhaps a vase but it didn't matter.

Merlin had scars. Merlin had secrets.

And he hadn't told Arthur about them.

He knew he could confront Merlin but he would only deny it or start an argument – he was good at that, well, almost as good as making up stupid insults - to make Arthur forget what they'd been talking about. No, Arthur would be sneaky about it, ignore the evidence for now, pretend that he hadn't seen what he'd seen, and watch Merlin more closely.

It was for Merlin's own good. He obviously needed protection. And when he finally found out who had hurt Merlin, Arthur would be there to make things right.

Then maybe Merlin would trust him enough to let him in, to let Arthur erase the memory of pain with gentle hands and stolen kisses, to let him fill Merlin up with so much love that he'd forget that there were ever scars to discover.

Maybe then there would be no more secrets between them.

The end


	2. Mistake

Too close, too close.

Heart beating as if trying to escape his chest, terror swift on his heels, Merlin ran back to his little room and slammed the door.

He'd been a fool. No, worse than a fool. He'd grown careless.

He'd known for months that Arthur was watching him, sneaking little glances when Merlin was doing chores, craning his neck whenever Merlin's shirt rode up a bit, gazing at anything that hinted of skin.

At first, he thought it was harmless, that Arthur was just being an annoying prat or maybe trying to find something to mock whenever the large ear jokes or jibes about his clumsiness ran thin. He was sure it couldn't be something else, something more intimate. After all, Arthur would never indulge himself, never have a liaison with a servant; he'd been clear about such things, that forcing someone of lower rank to bend to a noble's sexual needs was dishonourable.

But even if it were possible, even if there were to be more – and Merlin could feel the longing between them growing and growing almost past the breaking point, he knew he'd never be able to give in.

Because his skin exposed every lie he'd ever told Arthur. The battle with Nimueh branded his chest; there was the leftover imprint of Morgause's chains, the sting of hideous creatures, burns and wounds mishealed from Sigan and Catrina and so many others that he'd lost count. And almost every scar had been brought about by confrontations with magic.

Arthur would be horrified if he knew the truth, would probably cut Merlin's head off and think himself lucky to have avoided a sorcerer's taint.

No, it could never be, not until magic was restored to Camelot and even then, Arthur would never forgive the betrayal.

Better for Arthur to think the scars were from other things, other mishaps. Better that Merlin bury himself in more lies than tell the truth.

The truth would only get him killed.


	3. Confessions

**Rating:** PG-13  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Merlin just digs himself in deeper and deeper

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><p>Arthur was surprised when Merlin returned so quickly. After the debacle of him ripping Merlin's shirt and Merlin spitting fury like some kind of prickly maiden about the whole mess, he hadn't expected him back so soon.<p>

Until now, he'd thought that Merlin was just shy about showing off a bit of flesh. Arthur had seen enough of peasants working the fields to know that they often shucked off their shirts in the summer heat. Then, too, there had even been rumours of naked dancing at some of the festivals in the outlying villages – not that he'd know because, according to his father, royalty weren't supposed to know about such things. But he _had_ thought about it, thought about Merlin dancing, that pale skin of his glowing in the moonlight, had wrung pleasure out of the vision of dark hair and a sinful mouth and long, long limbs wrapping around him.

But there was no pleasure in Merlin's face now, only a wary look and silence.

Since it had been his mistake, Arthur knew he'd have to offer a non-apology apology. He was good at it; he'd been trained from birth to never acknowledge weakness – his father had seen to that – but Arthur was in the wrong, at least a little bit.

"Merlin, you've returned." As he watched for any reaction, he could see pale, perfect fingers twisting, turning what looked to be Arthur's dirty shirt into complicated knots. There was no sign of Merlin's ragged shirt – he'd changed before he came back- and that was another guilt to add to Arthur's endless list. He gave out a long, put-upon sigh and said, "I would have preferred that my shirt be clean when you brought it back but we can't always have what we want. Apparently."

Jerking away as though struck, Merlin opened his mouth and then closed it again. Looking thunderous, he threw Arthur's shirt into the laundry basket, muttering under his breath and stomped over to pick up the errant bucket that had started it all.

That hadn't gone well. Arthur tried again. "I hadn't expected it to tear so quite easily. Obviously you show as little regard for your clothes as mine." As Merlin let go of the bucket, the sharp clatter against the stone floor a clear indication that he was still put out and being loud about it, Arthur said, "I will replace it, of course."

"No need. I wouldn't want you to go out of your way, sire."

Oh, hell. When Merlin started using sire instead of Arthur's name, he knew he was in big trouble. Probably his food would be cold sludge and chewy meat for some time. Not that he didn't deserve it.

"I didn't know…"

Arms waving like some kind of tentacled monster, it was clear Merlin was livid. He was screeching, too, painfully so to Arthur's ears. "Didn't know what? That my body wasn't as perfect as yours? That because I'm clumsy, I'm somehow less that you expected? Well, now you know." He kicked at the bucket and it fell over, rolling a bit until it rested against Arthur's boot. With a glare that could have melted iron, Merlin bent down and picked it up again, rattling the handle as he did so. "So can we please drop it? I have work to do, _sire_."

How had Merlin known about what Arthur was really after – looking at, touching, wringing pleasure out of Merlin's body? He'd started out to apologize about ruining Merlin's shirt and it had changed somehow, gotten out of control somehow but since he'd brought it up, Arthur wasn't going to let it go.

"I don't care if your body is perfect." Merlin sent him another furious scowl, then knelt down on the floor and began scrubbing away. "Or imperfect. Honestly Merlin, I hadn't thought about it at all. I'm a prince and as such am above such things."

The noise that followed was thick with accusations – the bucket clanged again, louder this time, then there was a rapid scratching as Merlin used the scrub brush to try and burrow his way through the floor. Arthur couldn't hear what Merlin was saying under his breath but he thought it might be better not to.

When Merlin finally wound down, was cleaning with his usual incompetence – he hadn't even noticed there was no water in the bucket, Arthur said, "You could have come to me, you know. They hurt you and I would have made sure they never did it again."

"Just drop it." Merlin started scrubbing harder again, looking as if he were trying to wear out the stone.

"Merlin, they don't deserve your silence." When Merlin said nothing else, Arthur had had enough. Stepping on the brush, his boot just a hairsbreadth from Merlin's fingers, the idiot stopped what he was doing and scowled up at him.

Arthur raised one eyebrow, a pale imitation of Gaius's to be sure but still, it got the message across. Merlin scrambled to his feet and said, "I thought mules were stubborn but you, you just have to know everything, don't you?"

While he was certain he wasn't quite as mulish as Merlin was implying, at least he was talking. Not wanting to show Merlin just how relieved he was, he gave an imperious nod. "I'm the prince. I'm supposed to know everything."

"Well, obviously you don't. You can't even get dressed by yourself." He waved an arm toward the cupboard. "I put your clothes in there every single day. Surely it doesn't take a cabbage head to figure it out."

Merlin was very good at diverting conversation. With the twists and turns of his idiotic ramblings and the inventive insults, half the time Arthur ended up never getting his point across.

Before Merlin could babble on about something else and confuse the situation further, Arthur grabbed Merlin's shoulder and shook him a little. For a moment, Merlin looked as if he were panicking, then he stilled, still breathing hard but at least he didn't pull away. "I know we can't be friends. My father would never allow it but if things were different, I thought… I thought we'd be….why can't you tell me?"

Looking like he was going to cry, Merlin said, "It's… hard."

"Merlin, no, it's not. Just tell me." Merlin was obviously lying about it and Arthur really did think they were friends at least, even if he couldn't admit it. It didn't help that under his hand was warmth and his heart's longing, that beneath the threadbare shirt was skin he wanted desperately to touch. And it made Arthur frustrated and not a little sharp. "I will find out, you know. Something like this cannot be ignored."

"It's not…." When Arthur sent him an unbelieving look, Merlin bit at his lip, then turned his head away. "All right, it was me, okay. It was me."

"You are not making any sense. As usual." Arthur frowned. How could Merlin have done all of that to himself? It wasn't possible. He had to be covering up for someone.

"I'm… clumsy." Merlin's face was pink and he looked almost defeated, glancing at Arthur and turning away again. "So go on. Insult me. You know you want to."

"No one is that clumsy, not even you." Arthur couldn't believe that Merlin would think so little of him. He gave him another little shake. "These aren't just little bumps and cuts, Merlin. I promise to protect you. Tell me who did this."

"No one!" His face now an unbecoming red, Merlin jerked out of Arthur's grasp. "I knock things over or I don't pay attention. Gaius says I'm a menace."

"Gaius is a very wise man."

That just set Merlin off. Waving his arms, his voice growing louder and more upset with every breath, he said, "You work me to the bone, never give me a day off and Gaius isn't any better. When I'm not running around making sure you have a bath or finding a red shirt that was just the right red and not a purple red or an orange red or even a red red but just red or digging into your pile of disgusting socks or shining your pratly boots that I swear you've been dragging through the mud on purpose or filling up your cup or mucking out the stables – they have stable boys for that, you know, Gaius is making me boil up poultices or plucking flowers at midnight or grinding herbs or cleaning the leech tank and I get tired."

Arthur had no idea. When Merlin described it like that, it did sound like he was being run ragged. No wonder half the time he was stumbling over his feet or dropping things or sleeping on the job; Arthur was exhausted just listening to it all. But he couldn't admit it. That wasn't how their relationship - what there was of it - worked.

"That's your job, Merlin."

"Yeah, well, I get tired." Merlin sent him another scowl. "I make mistakes."

"Those scars are bigger than a few mistakes," Arthur said.

"If I tell you, will you shut up about it?"

He sounded thoroughly put out but when Arthur nodded, Merlin looked at first startled and then resigned. Maybe he thought he could talk his way out of it or that Arthur wouldn't accept the shutting-up part of it and he could have avoided Arthur's demands that way.

At least Merlin wasn't stomping out of the room. It wouldn't have stopped Arthur from finding out the truth in any case but Merlin didn't know that.

For a moment, Merlin seemed to shrink a bit, huddling inward, some internal conflict clear in the way he kept glancing at Arthur and then away again.

It made no sense. After all, telling him about how he got the scars should clear the air between them and surely Merlin wanted that as much as Arthur did.

But instead, with a voice soft enough that Arthur had to lean forward to catch all the words, Merlin said, "The burn near my shoulder was from a distillation gone wrong. I put the wrong thing in at the wrong time and it blew up."

Arthur glanced at Merlin's shoulder, trying to see through the fabric to the burned mess under his shirt. That kind of explosion could have cost Merlin his life; the glass alone could have sliced him to ribbons. No wonder it looked so painful.

But something was missing. Arthur didn't remember an explosion, didn't remember Merlin in bed for the weeks it would have taken to heal, didn't remember Gaius fussing about it – and surely he would have; Merlin was like a son to him.

"Gaius never mentioned it and I don't recall you taking that much time off to recover."

"I'm a fast healer. I have to be to put up with you. I'm always getting knocked about when you want to train or whatever it is you call mucking around with swords. Target practice is the worst, well next to maces. You really love maces, although I don't know why. All that heavy metal whirling around your head could hurt someone. Although that might explain why you are so thick."

Merlin was trying to change the subject again; funny that Arthur wouldn't normally have noticed but when he focused on Merlin's face, there was just the hint of nervousness. "When, Merlin?"

"The mace swinging? All the time. I swear you…" Merlin was babbling. Usually it would be almost endearing but not this time.

Arthur gave out another long put-upon sigh and said, "When did it blow up?"

Merlin stopped, looking a little confused, then his face scrunched up as if he were thinking about it. "It was after you got bitten by the Questing Beast and we were trying to come up with a cure. I put…" He swallowed hard, looked down at his hands as he said, "It blew up just as I was reaching over."

That actually made sense. It took Arthur a long time to recover from that bite and he did remember Merlin being absent when he woke up. Gwen had been there instead but he'd been too muzzy to realize it at the time. Then Camelot was attacked again and he had to focus on other things. The questions he might have asked about where Merlin had been, never came up.

But Merlin had more than one scar. He had dozens. Surely he couldn't be that clumsy, no matter how much Arthur teased him about his two left feet.

"And the big one on your right side?"

Merlin's face pinked, his eyes narrowed and he looked just a little bit rebellious. "Do we have to go on about this? We both know I'll never hear the end of it. You just want things to insult me with when you run out of big ear jokes."

But when Arthur lifted his eyebrows again and gave him the I'm-not-going-to-let-you-off-so-easily stare, Merlin's shoulders slumped. "Fell off a horse into a tree. Branches ripped me up." Arthur was surprised. Merlin was a fair hand on a horse, and usually kept up quite well – not that he'd admit it to Merlin. "You were always going on about how bad a rider I was. I didn't know how to ride before I came here so I thought I'd practice… while you weren't there to mock me."

That hurt. It was true, too, which made it even more painful to hear. He flushed, shame rising in his chest. It would appear that he had driven Merlin to try things beyond his capabilities, although in the end, it helped him become a better rider. But at what cost?

"You know you could have asked me. I would have helped or any of the knights…."

"Right and pigs would fly, sire." Merlin just rolled his eyes. "You were at your clotpole worst right about then and we both know you would have ridiculed the very idea of me asking you for help in anything. Being a servant and all, I was beneath your notice, except as someone to order about. And as for those knights, when I first came here, they weren't exactly nice to me."

Now that Merlin pointed it out, he was right. Arthur hadn't exactly been understanding when Merlin had become his servant. The shame grew stronger. He had much to answer for and apparently Merlin had paid for it in blood and pain.

"I can't change the past." Reaching out, Arthur grasped Merlin's shoulder, a light squeeze and he gave him a little smile of apology. "But from now on, if you need anything, anything at all, you know you come to me, right? I promise to listen and to help if I can."

There was a brief flicker of emotion in those blue eyes, guilt or fear or shame, and the beginning of tears. But in the next moment, Arthur thought that he must have imagined it. Merlin grinned, looking more at ease than he'd been since the whole debacle began.

"Are you going to stop mocking me then?" He sounded almost excited about it and the room was brighter for his smile.

Arthur answered it in kind, turning his own grin into a smirk as he said, "I don't mock you. I merely point out your flaws - repeatedly."

At that, Merlin sputtered, a kind of fake outrage that spoke of a long drawn-out revenge later when Arthur wasn't paying attention.

Arthur wanted to laugh at it all. The face Merlin was pulling was too ridiculous for words and it was like coming home again, back to where things had been so much sweeter between them. His heart was lightening with every beat.

"You mock me, too, with those ridiculous names. And you have a way of making the most mundane of things sound like an insult. Don't bother to deny it, Merlin. We both know it's true."

Biting at his lip a moment, likely to keep from abusing Arthur further, Merlin said, "Well, it's hard to ignore your flaws when you have so many of them, your royal pratliness. Someone has to tell you and deflate that ego of yours or else your head wouldn't fit through the door."

"Did you just call me a fat head? But since I am above such things, I will ignore the obvious slur on my character this time." Arthur shook his head, still smiling, still enjoying how Merlin had finally relaxed and let him back into the warmth, past whatever walls he'd built up while trying to hide from Arthur's concern. "Really Merlin, your list of insults is growing thin. Surely there are other names you could make up. If nothing else, you could use it as an intellectual exercise to broaden your mind… oh, but wait, there isn't any intellect there."

As Merlin stammered a protest, Arthur jerked him close, then used his knuckles to rub hard across black hair.

Struggling to get away, Merlin yowled, protesting bitterly while Arthur scrubbed at his head. When he finally let go, he was pleased to see that Merlin didn't try to escape; instead while patting down that wild hair of his, Merlin looked positively warmed by Arthur's touch.

The fact that he was still there, still willing to put up with Arthur and all the flaws that he lived with every day, made him bold. "There are many things I'm not allowed to say, Merlin, but I'd hoped…."

"That I'd see the man beneath the prat?"

At times, it was uncanny how easily Merlin could read him. It should have made him wary; after all, to be anticipated in battle was to be vulnerable and he'd been taught never to accept such weakness. But with Merlin, he could relax, could be himself for once, and that was a treasure beyond price. "Merlin, don't ever change."

There was Merlin's smile again, softened, turned fond. But then a moment later, he stiffened, long fingers curling and uncurling, blinking rapidly as if fighting to hold back tears, and he sounded hesitant as he said, "I hope someday you'll see me, too."

That was odd. Merlin wore his heart on his sleeve, and he was as easy to read as sunlight, wasn't he? Why he would worry about Arthur's reaction at seeing beneath the bright smile and the babbling nonsense was troubling. It made him realize that maybe he didn't know Merlin as well as he thought he did.

But then again, he didn't, not really. The revelations about the scars had shown him that. Friends or not, Merlin had secrets, too, secrets that he didn't want to share, at least not yet. And considering that Merlin was so shy about telling him about the scars – not trivial in the physical sense but still not really important overall, he didn't want to push him too far. Merlin's secrets couldn't be all that earth-shattering; he was too tender-hearted, too willing to sacrifice himself for his friends to be hiding something important.

Something must have shown in his face, though, because Merlin started to stammer out an apology. But rather than have his best friend withdraw into silence again, Arthur did what he always did when faced with emotion – made light of it.

"You are an open book or so you've informed me several times."

"I _am_ an open book." For a heartbeat, Merlin stood there waiting, as if he expected more questions but then he seemed to shake it off and gave Arthur a grin, instead. "That is, if you could read, I would be."

Straightening up, trying to look as offended as a prattish prince might be at such an implication, with a tilt of his chin and annoyed glare, Arthur said, "Hey, I'll have you know I read quite well."

"Of course, your highness." Instead of apologies, he bowed but smirked - a full-blown one at that - as he did so.

Arthur wanted to laugh. Merlin really was absurd. With him around, ordinary conversation often became mockery and while Arthur was loathe to admit it, he treasured every foolish word.

"I always know when you are insulting me. You call me ridiculous names."

To emphasize his displeasure, he wagged a finger in front of Merlin's face, back and forth but instead of retreating, all Merlin did was cross his eyes a moment watching the movement, and then flicked his gaze to Arthur's.

"Me calling you 'your highness' is ridiculous?"

"When it comes out of your mouth, yes."

He hadn't meant to talk about Merlin's mouth or Merlin's anything really; that was a path that would only lead to ruin. He should have passed it off as just one more insult but instead, quite unintentionally, he stopped, and made things worse by staring at Merlin's lips for the briefest of moments.

Merlin must have seen his reaction. He stilled, flicking his gaze downward and then back up to meet Arthur's own. It didn't help that Merlin worried at his lip, looking suddenly nervous.

The air was thick with anticipation. Trying to diffuse the situation, trying for intimidation rather than intimacy, he reached out, curling his hand around Merlin's neck and pulled him closer. He'd done it dozens of times before, holding him still while he did something absurdly physical: washing Merlin's face with a dirty rag, shoving rat stew into his mouth, rubbing gaia berries across his skin. Pushing or pulling or doing just about anything to get Merlin grumbling about abusive masters and princely prats.

But this time, heat was searing into his palm, his heart racing so much it hurt. He might have drawn a sharp breath or maybe stopped breathing altogether but he didn't want to let go, not just yet.

"Arthur?" Merlin didn't jerk away, instead seemed to push into his hand. His blue eyes darkening, his mouth hanging open a moment, he said, "You know that you can ask anything of me and I'd give it to you."

If Arthur had been breathing before, now his lungs seized up with a longing so sharp that he thought he'd die of it.

It was impossible but Merlin sounded as though he were serious. And if that was true, what Arthur had dreamed of for years might be attainable after all. It took all his energy to croak out, "Anything?"

"Well, I won't be able to help you with that fat head of yours but yes, whatever you asked of me, anything at all."

There was an insult in there somewhere but Arthur didn't care. He felt that he was standing on the edge of a precipice; a single misstep and he'd plummet into disaster and yet standing so close to Merlin, it was brilliant, too.

It was as if he'd only just come alive - because Merlin hadn't turned it into a jest, hadn't diverted whatever it was between them into smiles and nonsense. Instead he looked as sincere as Arthur had ever seen him.

"And if it were personal?"

Merlin didn't smirk, didn't balk at the implications. Instead, he leaned in, placing his hand over Arthur's, warming them both. Under his palm, Arthur could feel the pulse at Merlin's throat racing impossibly fast.

As he watched Arthur, as carefully as if he were some kind of wild creature and Merlin thought he'd bolt at the first hint of trouble, he said, "Anything."

He thought he might die of want. So close, so ready to fall, still he had to give Merlin a chance to back away, a chance to say no.

"And if it's something I'm not supposed to have?"

But Merlin didn't say no. He didn't try to treat whatever this was as a joke. Instead, leaning closer, breathing the same air, filling Arthur with hope and terror and uncertainty, Merlin said, "If it's what I think it is, I want it too. I have for a long time."

"Do I have to ask?"

He hadn't meant to sound vulnerable but Merlin had always brought out the best and the worst in him. Unexpected and annoying and breathtakingly beautiful, he was the key, fitting into the lock of Arthur's life and setting him free.

Eyes gleaming hungry, as sure of himself as Arthur had ever seen him, Merlin smiled. "No, I don't believe you do."

Fingers cupping his face, holding him captive, Merlin ghosted his mouth over Arthur's skin, leaving a trail of warmth and lust and then as Arthur, impatient, frustrated, exhilarated, was about to take matters into his own hands, Merlin plunged in, taking, taking, turning Arthur's world into a brilliant blaze of ecstasy.

As it should be.


	4. Façades

****Summary:** **Merlin's scars aren't only on the outside.

**Chapter 4: **Façades

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><p>For a time, Merlin felt as alive as if he'd swallowed magic, the fires of ecstasy blazing just under his heart. Knowing that it might mean nothing, that Arthur might feel differently in the morning or that he'd go back into that hard shell of his and deny everything, still Merlin had had a single night to treasure in the days to come.<p>

Arthur had been both shy and commanding in the way he wrung pleasure out of Merlin's body, seeming to delight in every groan. Using fingers to trail joy along his skin, mouthing at groin and nipple and that little soft spot behind one ear that Merlin hadn't realized was so sensitive, Arthur tried hard to make it good for him. And he had, oh so much.

But what brought him finally to tears was Arthur ghosting his hands across Merlin's scars. He'd been so gentle, as if afraid to hurt him, and he hadn't – except to remind Merlin of what he'd done.

Dishonesty and pretense and hiding forever beneath magic's ban. Arthur had trusted Merlin with himself and his vulnerable heart and instead Merlin betrayed him yet again.

He couldn't explain the grief, not while lying in Arthur's arms, not without begging for forgiveness, and so Merlin had let him call him a girl and kiss him until he forgot his sorrow in bright bliss.

In the days and weeks ahead, he knew he'd only continue along the path he'd set so long ago, digging himself in deeper and deeper until he was buried in lies.

But the thing that twisted at him, that drove the regret in deep, so deep that he could barely breathe, was something Arthur had said in the night. That he loved Merlin for wanting the man, not the façade of the prince or the prat, but for Arthur's true self.

It broke his heart to hear it, shattered it into a thousand desperate shards, and yet he hid his grief, smiled instead and kissed Arthur and drove him back into ecstasy.

He realized now that Arthur would never know the true Merlin. He would love the shadow and not the man, never the man.

And unlike the scars rending his skin, every time he betrayed Arthur with lies and more lies, every time he looked into Arthur's eyes and saw happiness there, a cut, deeper than any blade could go, would open in his chest. A fresh wound for every smile, for every fall into rapture, for every whisper of love.

But no scars this time - because some wounds never healed.

The end.


End file.
